


Paradise Lost

by LadyoftheSea



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt, Episode: s1e04 The Sanctuary, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Introspection, Other, Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:20:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21668869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheSea/pseuds/LadyoftheSea
Summary: The Mandalorian struggles to adhere to the Way. He's always worked alone—but then that changed. Now he can't decipher how far it should go, how much he could let in before he was lost entirely.
Relationships: The Mandalorian & Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian/Omera (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 155





	Paradise Lost

**Author's Note:**

> I was hit with Manic Fanfic Fever™ during a rough bout of insomnia and couldn't stop thinking about this scene. This is my first dabbling in the _Star Wars_ universe (in fanfic, anyway - I've loved it for many years), but this show and this scene specifically affected me so much that I couldn't help myself. Some things in the lore haven't been entirely fleshed out in the new canon, so I'm adhering to what's available to the best of my ability. I hope you enjoy!

_"Wouldn’t that be nice?”_

That was the problem: It _did_ sound nice. More than that—it sounded better than anything he’d heard in a long time. Her hands crept closer to his helmet, and he swore he could almost feel the heat of her fingers through the beskar, like her skin was touching his, burning and alive.

How long had it been since he considered staying in one place—with anyone? The Mandalorian couldn’t remember. But, then again, he had never conceived the outcomes he was grappling with, the consequences of his choices in all his time alone in the Razor’s Crest, roaming the galaxy and going day by day—never thinking beyond that, searching for what he told himself was solely bounties, an existence defined by honour in battle and benefitting the Tribe. Now he couldn’t be sure. Not with her right in front of him, with his charge in the corner of his eye, giggling and cooing with the village children. 

Leaving the Guild. Jeopardizing the Tribe. Risking his life, not just for anyone, but for the Child—this small, nameless ward he didn’t know how to explain. 

_This is the Way._

But he wasn’t entirely sure anymore of that either. His life—his training _—_ had not prepared him for this. The Way mandated that he walked his path alone, his tribe as his shield when needed but never as his crutch. 

That was right; there was a path to follow. 

_This is the Way._

What had he called Sorgan, a ‘backwater skug hole’? It was on the periphery—sheltered and all but forgotten. Had he not stared out the window of his temporary shelter, helmet on the sill and a warm plate of food next to him—brought to him in an act of thoughtfulness he hadn’t encountered in years—and watched as the Child was fawned over and loved, laughing and excited, just like he should be? Had he not been reminded that maybe, in this universe that was as cold and unfeeling as the outskirts he prowled, there were pockets of good as well? 

“It’s… nice here,” he had begun after pulling Omera aside. He was no wordsmith, his interactions for so long had only been about _how much_ and _dead or alive?—_ and he was glad, just as he had been so many times before, that his face was hidden. 

“Yes,” she had said, smile wide. 

“I think it’s clear he’s… he’s happy here," he had said, gesturing to the Child. 

That’s what he wanted. For the little one to be happy. He couldn’t articulate _why_ , only that it was what mattered now. 

“What about you?” she had asked. The green and blue of her tunic only made her dark hair richer, the colour of wet bark after the heavy mist had fled in the early morning, her eyes the dark gold of the evening horizon. 

“Me?” he had replied. 

“Are _you_ happy here?” 

_‘Travelling with me, that’s no life for a kid.’_

“We want you to stay,” she had said, her voice so sturdy and sure where he had struggled to find his. 

He was right—that was no life for a kid, not for someone so small. His job, his mission _,_ was complete. 

_Wasn’t it?_

“The community is grateful—you can pack all of this away in case there’s trouble. You and your boy can have a good life.” 

_His boy._

The Mandalorian didn’t recognize the feeling growing in his chest—barely perceptible, but there all the same. Omera was trying so hard, almost pleading with him. 

And it was working. 

“He could be a child for a while. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

_My boy._

He was still faced with the choice, looking from Omera’s eyes over across the water to the Child, still laughing and basking in the attention being lavished on him. 

_Little womp rat is right,_ he thought, the corners of his mouth twitching. And he was surprised at how tight his chest was, something pulling like a strained muscle, like a deep bruise. He struggled to find the will to say _no._

But the words didn’t come. Not the ones he wanted. 

Even the modulator couldn’t hide how his voice broke, the hoarse tone was all he could manage—and it wasn’t enough. “It would.” 

Thoughtful and kind. Considerate. He _could_ make a life here. He didn’t know what it would look like, but it… felt _right._

Then her hands shifted, moving to lift his helmet. 

And he almost let her. 

_This isn’t the Way._

He gripped her arms, soft but firm. 

_‘He’ll get over it. We all do.’_

He couldn’t fool himself; he couldn’t stay. What life would that be, what would he bring? The Child… would be better off this way. They all would. 

He was meant to be alone. The Mand’alor were a people knit together by intense loyalty and kinship, but this was not their way. His choice had been made a long time ago. 

“I don’t belong here,” he said, gently taking her hands away. “But he does.” 

Briefly, they both looked to the Child, and she nodded. “I understand.” 

Why did she have to look at him like that? No one should cry. Not over him. Not _for_ him. 

“I will look after him as one of my own,” she said, managing to smile and make it real— _bright._ He was right and Omera hadn’t proved him wrong—she was kind. Kinder than someone like him deserved.

Just as his heart sank back to where it belonged, where things were simple, uncomplicated, where there was the Way and nothing else—he thought it might stop completely. A powerful shot, heavy as thunder, rang out across the clearing, piercing and loud. He knew the sound anywhere—a powerful blaster being shot. Too close. _It was too close._

Adrenaline shot through his veins, sharpening his mind. Birds took flight, abandoning the trees and screeching in the air as the children screamed. His movements were automatic, putting himself in front of Omera and drawing his own blaster, scanning for where the shot had come from—where he needed to be, who needed to die. 

_“Go get the kids.”_ It wasn’t a yell, but there was panic there. Panic wouldn’t help. He crushed it quickly. Safety—that’s all that mattered, keeping them safe, keeping him— _his boy—_ safe— 

He ran, jumping over the uneven terrain and pushing through the slick mud, his footing sure and swift. Clearing the open space, he whipped through the trees, following the direction the shot came from, scanning the horizon as he kept going. 

By the time he got there, the smoking carcass of the bastard was already on the ground. Cara stood over him with her brows furrowed, blaster raised skyward and finger resting close to the trigger. Sharing a look of confusion, he kicked the body over. 

His heart finally stopped—stuttering in his chest and cinching tight before resuming, fast and high on the threat of a fight. 

It was a tracker. Identical to the one he had carried with him just a few weeks ago. Reaching down, he held it tight, the device creaking under the strain of his grip. 

“Who’s he tracking?” Cara asked. 

How could he have forgotten? Greef had told him everyone in the Guild had one. There would be no hiding out, no backwater town far enough to eliminate the chance of someone finding them again. 

“The kid.”

He felt foolish. Deluded. And he only had himself to blame. 

“They know he’s here,” she said. 

“Yes.” He looked off, back through the trees where the Child was waiting. 

“Then they’ll keep coming.” 

Cara was right. He knew— _had known_ all of this before, had it in the back of his mind. That shot had shattered the lie he almost took as truth—he was better off alone. _They_ were better off if he was alone. 

_This is the Way._

“Yes.” 

Throwing the tracker on a rock, the Mandalorian crushed it under his boot, pressing hard until its beeping died. Taking this one out was but one of many. 

As he walked back to the village, he looked for the small spot of bright green and too-big ears that caught the light, needing that visual confirmation that the kid was alright. Finding those big black eyes, wide with curiosity and uncertainty, he looked up and saw Omera’s—how she held the Child in her arms, how Winta clutched her tunic. 

He knew he needed to leave, that he had stayed far too long. The process was a familiar one—taking his few belongings and bundling them back up, getting ready to move out and roam. His movements were practiced, efficient. He only hesitated for a moment when he included some of the small gifts the other children had given to the kid, the extra tunic that was still a little too big.

But, even as he packed his things, looked at the wooden crib one last time, loaded the cart and gently placed the Child opposite him and watched on as Winta hugged the kid and cried, Omera’s words replayed in his head. 

_‘You and your boy can have a life.’_

They stayed with him as the cart pulled away, Omera’s quiet “Thank you” its own form of farewell, and the villagers gathered together to wave goodbye, close-knit and warm. And, if he didn’t know any better, it felt as if a part of him was staying behind—nestled at home with the people, finding a home where he could not. 

But a new thought came to him. Maybe… 

He looked at the Child, his faint smile and his unbroken focus as he stared after those they were leaving behind. Maybe a part of him was being left behind, too. Would the kid remember these people, just like he couldn’t forget his own? This small, little thing that remained such a mystery, one he couldn’t do without—a boy without a name. 

_‘Your boy.’_

_How long has it been since you heard your own name?_ he wondered. 

Maybe _this_ was the Way. Or, part of it. Two of the nameless bound together by forces he didn’t fully understand. But maybe it meant that he didn’t have to be alone, that he _could_ look after his ward. This Foundling. 

_My boy._

Maybe he didn’t belong on Sorgan, but that didn’t mean he that didn’t have a place to belong. Maybe it meant that he didn’t need to be alone after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> I may end up doing a part two as Mando and Baby Yoda bond more in the show, we'll see what happens lol. Many thanks for reading and checking this out, I'd love to hear what you think! ❤
> 
> Many thanks to my amazing beta, [Khaosprinz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaosprinz/pseuds/Khaosprinz), for reading this over!


End file.
